Dave Jenkins

Hey! I can see my house from here!

An officer for my company came to Korea last week for some meetings. We were hanging out afterwads, and we started talking about the difference between Tokyo and Seoul. He mentioned that Tokyo is a great city, but Seoul has great people…

The more I thought about it, and the more I hang out in Seoul, the more I think he hit the nail on the head. Tokyo has restaurants, markets, museums, shops, (and did i mention restaurants?) that blow your mind. Many is the weekend where I pick a random stop on the Yamanote line and just walk around. There is a magazine that is geared toward doing just that, named “Tokyo Walker“, oddly enough.

Seoul. People in Seoul aren`t so concerned about the restaurants where they have dinner. They don`t care about using their cellphones on the train (strictly verbotten in Tokyo). The entire population here seems like ot buys shirts from KMart– but that`s okay, because it`s _everyone_, so no one really sticks out as underdressed. Just yesterday I bought 4 shirts on the street for $5 each– these aren`t Ralph Lauren, but their pretty close to Van Heusen (gaach, did I just write that?)

Next week I`ll be in Tokyo. It will be good to be home. When I get back to Seoul, it will be good to be here again too.

What a great trip!

Jiggety Jig.

Don`t get me wrong, I like Korea, but it isn`t “home”. I get strange responses when I tell this to my friends here in Toyko, because they assume that home is Washington, or Utah, or London– but that is the whole point.

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Just before little Jack finished his matchbox lodge, he stopped and looked through the town underneath him. The general store, the dry goods depot, the mill, the hotel, and the post office splayed in apple-pie order– all was as it had been from the beginning; all was as it had been in the Great Book.

“Jackie,” Mother called, “do you want a sandwich, honey?”

“No, Mother,” now furitively rubbing his small hands “I’m gonna make something myself.”

What was missing? The rails were straight, the signals all wired, the plasticine population stood just so along the miniature (HO scale) boardwalks. Jack consulted the Book:

‘Chapter 14: Running Your Railroad Now that your town is built, go ahead and run the railline according to the schedule (see Chapter 12). Make sure your HO Line makes all the stops! Deliver that lumber from Thunder Mountain to the Mill Race! Take the ore from Golddigger’s hill down to the Ironworks for smelting! Don’t forget your regular customers coming in from Capital City for the Annual Carnival . . .’

The Chapter continued with the banalities or HO life. Jack had fulfilled all of the requirements to complete his world. Jack had fulfilled the Law. The physical world was complete.

Yet something still left the little genius incomplete. Jack read further . . .

‘ Remember to prepare for emergencies here in HOville! Does your city have a Fire Department? Read our next chapter and note the new line of products (FireHouse #47900F) that will make your town complete. . .’

Fire.

Vishnu brought all of creation out of the Bramha, only to have Shiva the Destroyer take it down again. One was not complete without the other.

Jack eyed the pile of matchheads left over from the Matchstick Lodge (now sitting proudly at the end of town near Thunder Mountain).

“Jackie! What on Earth have you done?!?” Mother choked as the smoke billowed up from the basement. “Jackie!”

A short while later, and Mother and Little Jack were watching the firemen pull down with their axes the last of the walls from their former house.

“Here’s your trouble right here, ma’am,” the charred fireman spoke evenly to the shaking cage of a woman, “Looks like Little Firebug here was playing with matches in the basement.” His eyes narrowed at the boy.

For the first time in his life, Jack had no idea what was going to happen next. So this is fear. So this is life– the period between Vishnu the Creator and Shiva the Destroyer.

Jack had become the center on the Great Wheel. His eyes spun in their sockets, and Jack began to giggle uncontrolably.

Hakim heard the thunderous crash off to his left– much louder than the bombing that had torn his brain apart for the last three weeks. Only this time the crash wasn’t the low gut-liquifying thud of bombs, it was higher pitched, like a car crash or train wreck.

Hakim thought it funny how good he had become at distinguishing sounds like this– for a 16 year old illiterate, he had become quite a demolitions expert.

The noise ground to a halt, and Hakim peered out of his trench across the sandcake flat.

There it was. The grey-green monster slung broken across the ground, a slain dragon, an elephant fight gone horribly wrong. The B-52 Stratosphere was no longer the palace in the sky, it was merely a chunk of metal brought low into the sand.

Hakim grabbed the only weapon left in the hole, the .50 cal that was missing half of the stock but still worked. He stepped over the two unburied bodies and gained a foothold half way up the wall. Hakim still crouched like a cat eyeing a dead rabbit in the road, unsure if it was clear to come out of the bush.

* * *

Jackson looked at Philips, who had been thrown clear across the bombay and was halfbent over some casings. “you okay?”

“ye–ow–…yeah.” Philips held his left arm tight against his chest. “I think I broke a rib or something.”

Jackson couldn`t believe his luck. He had barely sat down in the jumpseat in the back when the plane seemed to crack in half and drop from the sky. Jackson was in the back with the food, so while he was covered in vegetable scraps, he was otherwise unbruised. “You gonna be
okay?”

Phlips nodded, and then smirked at the mess covering Jackson. “You look like an idiot.”

Jackson looked down at his arms– he was covered in tomatoes, mango, green stuff, and squished grapes. He felt his matted down hair, and realized he must be covered in the stuff. So much for the Major’s black marketeering.

“Well, now what?”

Jackson felt the single bar on his collar as he dropped his hand from his head, and realized that he was probably “in command” now, unless the Major or Lt from the front of the plan had survived. Not wanting to show fear– wait– he didn`t feel any fear– why was that?– he wiped his hands on his sides and moved toward the gapping hole in the belly of the ship, now exposed out to the East across the flat sandcake. “Let’s find some weapons and the flares and get outta here. We’re sitting ducks inside this thing.”

Philips moved gingerly toward the open bombbay doors, where Jackson now helped him step over the steel cage and out into the dust. They shuffled forward along the exterior toward the nose of the ship, only to see it had been smashed in the impact. The cockpit was a scrunched mess, full of wires, aluminum framing, and… blood. Lots of blood. Philips was behind Jackson and couldn`t fully see it yet, but Jackson could. He tried not to vomit, but the bile was in the back of his throat.

* * *

Hakim continued to look at the beast. The dust had settled, and he could see the wreckage extend back to his right for at least a kilometer. Only the fuselage was in front of him, with it`s great tail pointing toward him, and one fin jutting skyward.

He lifted himself slowly out of his spot, and began a slow cautious pace toward the wreck.

* * *

Jackson choked back, and peered directly into the cockpit. They were gone– long gone, only pieces now. Jackson saw the Major`s 9mm pistol in what was left of the copilot`s seat. He fished it out, cutting his arm a little on the bare aluminum window frame.

By now Philips had sat back down in the sand, propping has back against the plane just below the smashed cockpit. Another 10 minutes and Philips would be in shock or just shy of it, once the adrenaline ran out.

Jack pulled his arm out more slowly than he had put it in, and crouched down next to him. Jackson inspected his cut, which wasn’t so bad. He held up the gun, and pulled the magazine– empty as usual. “Fucking hippie,” he muttered, thinking about the pot-smoking Major who never bothered loading his sidearm and only carried it because he thought it was ‘ironic’.

Jackson looked at Philips, who was now squinting and breathing much more slowly. Seeing the early signs of shock, Jack figured that time was not on their side– they need to find the flares or a radio or get some cover or something. He stood and shifted toward the smashed nose, stepping over what was left of the radar telemetrics.

* * *

Hakim froze.

Just as he was about 100 meters away from the monster something moved. Hakim couldn`t make out the shape at first but now saw that it was a man, standing near the far end– the front– of the great wreckage.

Allah! How could they survive such a wreck? How is it possible that they do not die? How is it that even now, when their great machine is smashed on the ground in front of him, that he is still not safe? Hakim peed his pants. He hadn`t done that since that first horrid night in the foxhole when the bombing began.

* * *
…walalabatashi a a ti ala be ltal ta aa haba!!!

“What the hell?!?” Jackson instinctively croutched down behind the nose, while Phlips instinctively rose to his feet– fear adrenaline rushed to his system. The shock would have to wait until later.

Jackson turned an ear to the noise– he recognized it now– someone was shouting something at them from the far side of the wreck. He couldn’t understand a word of it. “Holy shit. There`s some Iraqi out there.” As soon as Jack said it, he realized how stupid it sounded– of course
there was some Iraqi out there– there would be when you`re 100 clicks over the Kuwaiti border.

He craned his neck, and shot a quick glance over the aluminum framing to the source of the noise, empty pistol in hand–

The raggedy shadow was prostrate on the sand, weapon laid perpendicular at least one meter in front of his outstretched hands. The shape looked like he was praying, but the fear in his voice betrayed his true mindset.

“Sonovabitch.” Jackson reached back and pulled Philips around to share his view, as if to confirm what he was seeing.

The two Americans moved around the nose and walked toward the boy, still screaming and crying and sllightly pounding the sand in front of his head. His voice was muffled, his scarf now draped over his sand-covered dry face. Philips kicked the .50 cal away from the form on the ground, and at first Jackson leveled the pistol as some sort of empty threat to hold still, but then realized that the boy was in no condition to do anything but cry and scream.

The remaining crew of the Valhalla sat on the ground 5 meters away from their prisoner and waited for the Chinook helicopter to pick them up.